


Megalomaniac

by Lyra_Dhani



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambassador Frisk (Undertale), Frisk (Undertale) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Frisk (Undertale) Needs a Hug, Frisk is Harry Potter, Gen, Hogwarts, POV Second Person, Undertale Saves and Resets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25328170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyra_Dhani/pseuds/Lyra_Dhani
Summary: When Harry was nine-years old, he climbed Mt. Ebott. It changes things.(Or how things would have progressed differently if Harry Potter is Frisk Dreemur the youngest Ambassador.)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 87





	Megalomaniac

People in the station crane their neck curiously to see Toriel and Sans sending you off and for a moment, your anxiety is forgotten, replaced with pride for the obvious progress you've gotten. Two years ago, human would have either shown fear or hostility even just at the sight of them.

“Send me letters every week, okay?” Toriel says.

You just nod, the words stuck in your throat. This is really the worst time ever to have your brain stop processing words. There are a lot of things you want to say, not enough 'I love you' thrown around, and certainly too much time wasted away on nothing.

Toriel seems to understand. She pats your head and even though you're eleven and grow a head taller since you first meet her, you still feel like a nine years-old again. A lost fallen child.

You turn to Sans next. He's smiling as always but you can tell that he's worried for you. There are prominent dark circle under his eyesockets which he’s never been able to hide very well under the open sky but ever since the Hogwarts letter come, he looks more and more terrible every morning. You know that you only have yourself to blame.

“frisk,” Sans put his hand in your shoulder. “you can still back out, you know, choose a normal school.”

You shake your head and Sans let his hand drop. He shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him but he doesn’t fool anyone.

What is even normal anymore? Something always change. Whether it's the progress of Toriel and Asgore's relationship or Sans’ concerning night terrors, nothing have never been normal for you and you have long accepted that.

You hug Sans. “I love you.”

There you finally say it. Toward Toriel, you say heartily, “I love you, Mum.”

Toriel sniffs. You swallow. “Please tell Dad and Papyrus and Undyne and Alphys and-“

“we get it, kiddo,” is all Sans say. And what he really mean by that is you don’t have to declare your love to them because they know it. “take care of yourself, okay? because someone out there really care about you.”

You smile. The fact that Sans doesn’t make a pun joke speak volumes of how much he takes this seriously.

They care and it doesn’t just show in the way Toriel and Sans have personally drive you to the station, or the manga Alphys slipped into your bag, or the lunch Undyne and Papyrus have specifically prepared for you.

They care about you and you've learned to never take it for granted.

.

.

You can feel brush of magic the moment the Sorting Hat touch your hair. It feels nice and safe and you let out a sigh of relief at the familiarity. You can hear the thumping of his soul and it calms your mind, reminding you of home.

Toriel or Asgore used to let you sit in his lap and listen to the rythm of his magic. There’s something about it that lulls you to sleep. You stop doing that once you hit ten-years old but every once a while you find yourself woke up in their lap, head leaning againts a fluffy chest.

Monster’s magic doesn’t work like the Wizards do. It's closely tied to their soul and as a result, it can be a mirror of one's emotion. Humans usually don’t feel them but you have more sensitivity than most.

The Sorting Hat practically vibrates magic, it's louder than Papyrus' but less aggressive than Undyne's. You like it just as much as you like everyone’s magic.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Young Highness,” the Hat whispers.

“I am not a prince,” you say, although the Monsters like treat you as Asgore’s Royal heir.

“You’re a Dreemur,” the Hat says. He sounds pleased. You can’t deny that.

He sorts you into the Gryffindor. You move to your assigned table and sit down beside Ron, ignoring the stares and the whispers. You're used to it.

.

.

You never stop being Frisk Dreemur. Just because the other kids call you Harry Potter, it doesn’t mean you magically turn back into the skinny boy you were before the Fall. Even your appearance had changed and some people have commented on it.

Your red eyes really draw the attentions. It was the first thing Hagrid had brought up when he first met you. _What happened to your eyes?_ He had asked, worried.

Personally, you love the changes. You love your brown and red eyes and darker skin. It gives you less chance of being recognized by someone from your past.

The Muggleborn kids call you Frisk Dreemur, because they recognize you as the Youngest Ambassador that showed up on TV. The Wizardly kids, who apparently, doesn’t even know what a TV is, not only they never know about the Monster-Human cohabitation, they've never even heard of the old Legend, therefore they call you Harry Potter and refer to you as the Boy-Who-Lived.

You can feel a distinct gap created between them. Half of the Hogwarts students are in awe with Frisk Dreemur, while the other half are idolizing Harry Potter.

Hermione wants to keep discussing about your further plan on the Monster-Human cohabitation while Ron keeps bringing up your reputation that born out of murdering an edgy Lord when you were a baby.

It gives you a splitting headache.

And then there’s Snape, who hate you at first sight.

You hang back after the first class with him, gesturing on Ron to leave first.

“What do you want, Potter?”

The name comes out bitter and full of spite. It shouldn’t matter to you but you still flinch at the obvious animosity. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself.

“Professor, do you know my past?”

He seems taken aback. It's a refreshing look on his brooding face.

“Your past...?”

“I don’t remember my past,” you confess. It's technically not a lie. Sure, you still remember the Dursley family and their treatment of you, but it's pretty much swallowed up by the memories of your Resets in the Underground. When you look back, all you can remember is the feeling of loneliness and isolation. “I am just wondering if you know me before. Have I done something bad to you in the past?”

Snape's face is absolutely stony as he answers with a short, “No.”

Then, assuming he's telling the truth, if it has nothing to do with Frisk Dreemur or Harry Potter, it has everything to do with the Boy-Who-Lived. You smile at him.

“I understand. Have a good day, Professor,” you say before you leave the classroom.

The moment you step into the quiet hallway, your smile slips from your face and you punch the wall so hard it make your fist bleeds. Your hand throbs from the pain. It keeps your head straight.

.

.

Dumbledore reminds you of Sans, in a sense that they’re nice to be around with, but there’s an unbreakable wall separating them from the rest of the world.

Never once Sans bare his heart open, not just to you, but also to everyone else, and you doubt Dumbledore is any less guarded.

And it's because you’re aware of this that you don’t ask the Headmaster what he sees in the Mirror of Erised.

You tell him what you sees. You describe the clothes Papyrus wear in your tenth birthday, the love you can see in Toriel’s eyes she gazes back at you, your family surrounding you. When you catch the vulnerable expression in Dumbledore's face, you feel like scoring a victory.

.

.

“Do you know what LOVE stands for?” you ask.

Voldemort blink. Good, no matter how high and mighty he act, you can catch still him off-guard. “What-?”

“Level of Violence. It's a way to measure someone’s capacity to hurt.”

Your LV glitches for a moment. You can hear Chara laughing in your mind. At least, someone’s enjoying this.

When you speak up again, you can't tell if it's really you talking or if it's Chara taking over. “I hope you enjoy your last moments, Comedian.”

Voldemort lunges at you at the same time you clap your hand, activating your magic. You don’t hold back. “Get dunked on.”

Everyone’s magic is different. Flowey's attacks are small but effective, Undyne works with spears, and Papyrus' magic never really intend to cause harm. Your magic is combination of Toriel’s blazing fire and Sans’ signature moves.

It's wild and dangerous and too responsive of your emotion. Toriel make you promise to never use it with the intention to hurt.

But promises are made to be broken, anyway.

You watch as Quirrel scream in anghuish, his body slowly disappear to dust. When everything's over you lay down and wait until Dumbledore arrives.

He asks about Quirrel. You just shrug at him. It occurs to you that you should probably ask about your birth, why Voldemort targeted your parents specifically, and how you end up in Dursley's door in the first place.

You never bring it up.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Changing the status from 'might delete later' to 'one-shot'


End file.
